


A Long Walk in the Woods

by neenapee



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Coughing, Fever, M/M, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenapee/pseuds/neenapee
Summary: How can Jaskier keep up with his superhuman friend? Answer: he can't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 306





	A Long Walk in the Woods

Jaskier currently has one goal. That goal is to somehow keep up with Geralt, with his quick pace and his ability to somehow critique everything that Jaskier does. He knows that, if he can put up with it long enough, he’ll have stories and songs spouting from every nook and cranny of his brain. The unfortunate thing, though, is that his body doesn’t seem to be up for accomplishing his goal. His legs complain at the thought of one more step, and his throat burns with even one breath. If he were by himself he’d find somewhere quiet to nap if only to chase off the impending illness that he’s sure is coming his way, but with Geralt a hearty way in front of him, he doesn’t dare ask to stop. 

“How long until we reach the next town?” Jaskier asks, jogging to keep up with Geralt. His legs protest and he coughs into his sleeve. His throat burns- he knows his voice will be wrecked by the end of this. Geralt shoots him a glare as he prompts Roach to a faster walk. 

“It’s a ways away- we will be walking for the better part of the night. Most likely longer.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He isn’t sure he can take a couple more hours, let alone another day. “Will we be stopping somewhere for the night?” 

“We’ll keep walking,” Geralt says. “Or sleep somewhere in the woods.” 

“There’s nowhere closer?” 

“You wanted to come with me,” Geralt says. He’s right. “I told you what you were in for. If you aren’t up to it, I can drop you off in the next town.” 

“I- you’re right. I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t have the energy to say anything else. He feels as if he’s being sapped second by second, every bit of strength draining out of him to be replaced with the led that sits heavy in his limbs. Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. 

“You’re awfully quiet today.” 

“I’m just tired,” Jaskier says. “We’ve been walking for a long time, you know.” 

“I know.” He doesn’t say anything more, and Jaskier takes it as a sign. It hurts to talk, anyway, and he’ll have to save his voice. Maybe he’ll be able to make a few coins in the next town, buy a hot meal or some medicine. Besides, he knows Geralt likes the quiet better, anyway. 

\------

The bard has been quiet today. Not quiet in a good way. Geralt likes the quiet, and any break from Jaskier’s incessant babbling should be a good thing. But this type of quiet is a bad type of quiet. The type of quiet that seems to have stolen Jaskier all together and replaced him with the husk of a man he once was. Geralt glances at him as they walk; he’s clearly struggling to keep up. Maybe they should have stopped at the last town they passed. There wasn’t a job there but they could have rested in a warm bed, ate a nice meal before venturing out again. But that town is long gone, and they’re fully at the mercy of the forest. 

“You know, I wouldn’t mind one of those songs of yours,” Geralt says carefully. Usually, this would have brought Jaskier’s spirits right up; he would have sung about a fair maiden in a town that Jaskier would make up on the spot or one of Geralt’s conquests that are only half the truth. But now he only gets a small smile and a pitiful display of Jaskier struggling to take his lute off of his back. “Get’s boring out here after a while.” Geralt is perfectly happy with the silence. But he needs some sort of reassurance that Jaskier is perfectly fine, that this journey wasn’t quite too much for him.

“When a humble bard graced a ride along.” Jaskier starts out slowly- his voice huskier, shakier, quieter. It lacks its usual beauty and grace, and it’s painful to hear. “With Geralt of-” he breaks off into a coughing fit that sounds nothing short of miserable, and gives a half-hearted smile that does nothing to quell Geralt’s growing worry. “Sorry,” he says. “Something caught in my throat.” 

There was nothing caught in his throat, and they both know it. Geralt doesn’t know why he’s so on edge- he never gets emotional, but there’s something about how helpless Jaskier truly is that makes Geralt feel a rare feeling of pity deep in his gut.

They fall into silence, punctuated by tiny coughs and scuffling as Jaskier tries to keep up. Geralt can tell that Jaskier is exhausted; he’s panting trying to keep up, and his face glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. Granted, it is unnaturally warm outside, so he brushes it off. There’s nothing wrong, he tells himself. Just Jaskier being Jaskier. A witcher’s journey is always taxing, and Geralt tells himself that there’s nothing wrong with Jaskier other than exhaustion. But then he hears a thud behind him, and his body is flooded with an emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time; panic. 

He takes in three facts as he leans over Jaskier’s limp body. The first is that he seems to be shaking as if he’s cold, even though the sun feels like it’s boiling him alive. The second is that his skin is burning, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat, his hands clammy and warm. The third is that he’s pale as a ghost; Geralt hasn’t seen anything that pale in years. The last thing he saw that was that pale was something he killed. 

He contemplates slinging Jaskier’s body over Roach’s back and making his way through the forest as fast as he can, but it will be at least a day until they reach the next town, and Jaskier needs rest. So he pulls him underneath a tree, lays his cloak over Jaskier’s body. He makes a list in his head; they’ll need food and water, a heat source for the night. But he can’t leave Jaskier alone in the woods; sick and helpless, unconscious underneath a tree. So Geralt sinks down against the trunk, waits as Jaskier burns with fever next to him. 

\------

It’s a couple hours later when Geralt hears a groan. He glances down; Jaskier’s eyes stir underneath the lids, his eyelashes fluttering. He opens his mouth and Geralt wonders if he’s going to say something but it’s just a cough, gravely and harsh. “How are you feeling?” Geralt asks, still staring out into the woods. He hasn’t moved in hours. 

“Horrible,” Jaskier croaks. At least he isn’t lying anymore. That will only further hinder their progress. It’s best if Geralt can get Jaskier in traveling condition at least so that they can get moving to the next town. “What happened?” 

“You passed out. You’re ill, Jaskier, and you should have told me sooner.” 

“I didn’t want to slow you down.” 

“Well now we’re stuck here for the night until you’re well enough to move, so your plan didn’t quite work, did it?” Geralt snaps. He doesn’t want to have to wait in the woods for the night until Jaskier is well. But they’ll only be slower if they have to stop every five minutes so that Jaskier can catch his breath. “Wait here, I’m going to find some food and water.” He passes Jaskier a knife. The edge is blunt, and Jaskier already looks so harmless underneath Geralt’s cloak, he barely looks any more intimidating. But it’s something, at least. “If anything comes too close, stab it.” Geralt knows it’s risky to leave Jaskier in such a weak state, but they need sustenance for the night, and Geralt knows that he has no choice but to leave Jaskier underneath the tree as he ventures out into the woods. 

\------

He curls up underneath Geralt’s cloak as night sets around him. Every snap in the woods, every growl from an animal or rustle of leaves makes him jump. He feels as if he is floating in a dizzying haze of sweat and pain. The trees seem to move and sway around him, leaning back and forth as they leer over him. Every snap in the woods is a monster coming to kill him, and every howl is a pack of animals closing in, waiting to eat him alive.

He misses the feeling of protection that Geralt gave him; he wasn’t nice, and he wasn’t the best company, but it’s a comforting feeling to know that, even if sleep takes hold, the Witcher will be there to protect him. But now he is alone, and he is scared, and he pulls his legs up to his chest as he waits for Geralt to return. 

He’s started to doze off in a blurry haze of pain when Geralt returns, a bucket of water in one hand and a dead fish that’s half the size of Jaskier’s leg in the other. “Start a fire for tonight,” Geralt says. “I’ll prepare our food.” 

“I-” Geralt throws him a glare. 

“Do you have any complaints?” Geralt asks. It sounds like a question, but Jaskier knows it’s just a thinly veiled method of coercion. 

“No,” Jaskier says. He pushes himself up; he isn’t terrible at making fires, but his limbs feel week and jelly-like, and every time he stands, his head swims as if he’s just been hit. He can see Geralt watching him, but Jaskier isn’t one to back down from a challenge so he leans down over the pit that Geralt has somehow constructed-most likely when Jaskier was sleeping- and smacks two rocks together as hard as he possibly can. 

He doesn’t consider himself to necessarily be a weak person, but it takes him what feels like an hour to get even a spark, and even that dies out pitifully fast. Geralt should be pulling all of the gross stuff off of the fish to make it edible(it did come out of the river, after all), but he’s watching Jaskier with a look that’s half amusement and half judgment. 

“Are you sure you know how to do this?” Geralt asks snidely. Jaskier’s heart sinks. He’s been working so hard to keep up with Geralt’s pace, and this most recent bout of illness might set him back strides. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “I just have to- I have to figure out-” he pauses, frowning at his rocks. Geralt would have a roaring fire by now- Jaskier has nothing but a spark. “I just have to hit it harder, I think.” 

“Oh, give me those,” Geralt says. He snatches the rocks away, and with one grand strike, he has a roaring fire. Shame rises in Jaskier’s body, but at least he’s warmer now. Maybe the shivering will stop.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. He brings Geralt’s cloak tighter around his body, wrapping himself in the thick fabric until he is no longer at the mercy of the elements, only his own fever. Geralt glances at him, a frown dancing on his lips. 

“It’s-” Geralt sighs, scrubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine.” Jaskier can tell it’s taking everything that Geralt has in him not to rail on Jaskier for being completely and utterly inept. Jaskier makes a mental note to thank Geralt later, for being so kind in his time of need. “Just rest. Once you’re feeling better, we can move on.” 

“What if I don’t?” Jaskier asks. Geralt shoots him a glare for even suggesting such a thing, but it’s a real worry, persistently nagging Jaskier’s every thought. He feels so ill, he can’t imagine standing up and walking away the next day. 

“Then we’ll stay,” Geralt says. “We can’t move on until you’re well enough to travel. It will only put us at risk if we do.” He’s gritting his teeth, but some small part of Jaskier hopes that Geralt’s words come from a place of caring, stashed somewhere deep in his body that he doesn’t often let show. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says quietly. He plays with the edge of Geralt’s cloak; it’s warm and thick, sitting heavy on his shoulders. 

“Just drink,” Geralt says. Jaskier feels bad forcing Geralt to care for him, do the cooking and the hunting and the building. He’s already lost his cloak because of Jaskier, and it’s quickly getting colder. Jaskier takes the water bucket, taking a gulp and letting it dribble down his chin. It’s fresh from the stream and although he gets bits of sticks and dirt, it’s the most refreshing thing he’s ever tasted. 

As Jaskier drinks his fill and pulls Geralt’s cloak tighter around his shoulders, Geralt cooks the fish over the burning flame, waiting until it’s golden brown and cooked through to slice off Jaskier a piece. He picks at it; his stomach aches, and more than the food he wants to be closer to the fire, close enough so that he’s roasting. Maybe it will chase the chill out of his bones, create at least the illusion of warmth in his body. But Geralt had worked for this food, while Jaskier sat ill against a tree, so he ignores the aching of his stomach, and eats. 

By the end of dinner, he’s drowsy, and the fire is roaring. Roach is tied happily to a tree, eating the rest of the fish as Geralt stokes the fire. He leans back against the tree, his eyelids fluttering gently as flames of orange and red lick the corners of his vision. Despite the encroaching exhaustion he’s beginning to feel better; the pain in his skull has dulled to a muted throb and the burn in his throat no longer resembles the flame of the fire before him. 

“Maybe I can go fetch us some dessert,” Jaskier mumbles. His words are slurred with fever, and Geralt gives him yet another once-over. “You know, I’ve heard the mushrooms in this forest are supposed to be exceptional. Or I could sing a song. I have been told I have a gift.” He picks up his lute, strumming a chord. His fingers feel cold on the strings. “When a humble bard graced a ride alo-” it’ isn’t long until his voice cracks and he launches into a coughing fit that makes his throat burn. Any confidence that he had was gone, replaced with a shame deep in his heart; shame at his illness, at his weakness.

“Rest for tonight,” Geralt says. “Once you’re better we’ll move on, but your fever needs to go down first.” 

“That’s so sweet,” Jaskier mumbles. “It’s almost like you care about me.” 

“I care about the safety and efficiency of our travels,” Geralt says. “You are a second priority.” 

“Oh, I’m sure.” 

“It’s the truth, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Now, rest. You need it, and so does our journey.” He stares at Jaskier expectantly, and he sinks down lower against the tree trunk, wrapping Geralt’s cloak as tight around his body as it can go. His limbs still ache and his head still pounds but his exhaustion takes over all of it, and soon he’s slipping in and out of consciousness with barely a grasp on his surroundings. Normally, the creaks in the woods would scare him; he knows what lives out here, lying in wait for travelers such as himself. But he only feels safe as he slips off. He knows that, as much as Geralt may deny it, he will always protect Jaskier if he needs it.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys i hope you liked it if you want i have a tumblr you can check out @siickdays


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